Winter
by Catalina Day
Summary: Wee!chesters. He'd said he'd be back late last night, but when they'd woken up he wasn't in his bed. He wasn't in the bathroom. The Impala wasn't outside. Something was wrong.


**Disclaimer:** This is Kripke's sandbox; I just play in it from time to time, move everything around, and generally leave it a lot messier than it was when I found it.

**Word Count:** 1,663.

**A/N:** I like how this started out. Not too sure I'm all that fond of the ending; I think I rushed it a little. Tell me what you think, as I don't have a beta, and would like some feedback to make the story good. I usually wouldn't post this half-assed, but I don't really have any other options. Any constructive criticism you could give would be much appreciated. Thanks, and try to remember that this is, essentially, a first draft. Also, I could use a better name for the story.

As for their ages: there's a gap between January and May where Dean would technically be five years older than Sam. So I'm thinking this takes place sometime in February.

[/me officially over-thinking this]

**Summary:** Wee!chesters. He'd said he'd be back late last night, but when they'd woken up he wasn't in his bed. He wasn't in the bathroom. The Impala wasn't outside. Something was wrong.

* * *

**Winter**

* * *

Crisp winter air whistled in through the crack in the door, and Dean quietly lamented the state of their crappy apartment. Well, as much as a twelve year old could lament with his seven year old brother latched onto his shoulder, shaking like a jackhammer.

Leaning out of Sammy's grasp, he grabbed hold of the zipper on the brown haired boy's jacket, zipping it up as far as it would go.

"D-Dean?" His brother trailed behind him as he headed to the tiny kitchen.

"What?" Kitchen drawers slid out and slammed shut, and Dean still hadn't found what he was looking for. A flash of muted gray had him holding the mostly-used roll of duct tape, finally found in the last place he looked in.

"W-where's dad?" He swore those puppy-dog eyes would be the death of him. He wondered the same thing: where _was_ their dad? He'd said he'd be back late last night, but when they'd woken up he wasn't in his bed. He wasn't in the bathroom. The Impala wasn't outside. Something was wrong.

Dean gulped down his thoughts.

"He's working, dude. You know that."

"When will he be back?" Another violent shiver from his baby brother had Dean ripping the tape, laying it across the crack in the door like a dull, sticky shield against the cold. He turned and rubbed his hands down Sam's arms, trying to keep him warm.

"C'mon, Sammy. We gotta go for a walk."

"Out there? We'll freeze to death!" Dean smiled at the incredulous look on his face as he spoke.

"Walking keeps the blood pumping; keeps you warm." He thought that sounded about right. Something he might've seen on some TV show, or just something he made up. One thing was certain though, either way, they didn't have much of a choice. Sammy hadn't eaten anything since lunch the day before, and their dad...

Dean pulled his and Sam's hoods up around their faces, took his brother's hand, and opened the door.

* * *

The blood seeping from John Winchester's head didn't worry him as much as the pure screen of white that greeted him through the windshield of his beloved '67 Chevy Impala. The road was devoid of cars, except for his, and that might be a good thing if it weren't for the fact that he was apparently driving in the middle of a snow storm.

His options were limited, however. It was either drive now, or let his kids starve. Okay, maybe that was just on this side of melodramatic, but he needed to see his boys. He thought he'd left them with enough provisions to last them until after he returned, but it seemed his calculations had been off. The vengeful spirit he'd been hunting had turned out to be less of a regular salt n' burn, more of a game of 'Let's Run Around Between Two Cemeteries, Trying to Figure Out Which Unmarked Headstone is Hers!'

He'd finally had enough, and just burned the bones of both candidates. It had been the second one; the blood running down the side of his face and the bruises slowly blooming on his abdomen could attest to that.

He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, trying to will himself to stay awake, and silently blaming himself for his ineptitude. It simply wasn't acceptable.

The snow fell at an angle, the wind sweeping it along toward the car as he drove. A jarring stop, a groan, and the wheels spun aimlessly.

"Fuck."

* * *

It had only been three minutes, and already Dean wanted to go back inside, where at least they were mostly sheltered from the wind. But the pallor of his little brother's skin in the bright winter air and stumbling walk spoke to him more than the child's whining cries of being cold. He had to take care of Sammy, and he wasn't gonna leave him alone. He knew all too well that something bad could happen while he was just 'out for a walk', even if it _was_ to get food.

The large brick building slowly appeared in front of them, like the heavens had delivered it from the fog and snow. But, it seemed, heaven had some kind of sick sense of humor; the sign on the door read 'Closed'. It wasn't all that surprising, considering the weather, but Dean still took the liberty of kicking the door frame. Hard. It made him feel better for all of two seconds.

"Dean?" The small voice shook him from his anger, and he turned his head to look at Sammy as the kid kept talking. "Can we go home n-now?"

"Sorry, little man. We came here for food, and we're not leaving without it..." Sighing, he scrubbed his hand down over his face, a gesture that would become his trademark stress-signal in years to come. Took a deep breathe, and retrieved his lock-picking kit from his jeans pocket. Suddenly, he was glad for the training he had received. Not that he wasn't anyway, if it helped to protect Sammy. But sometimes he wished he could be doing other things, things that normal kids did. Like sitting at home right now, reading comic books while his dad played with Sammy.

But as the lock clicked and the door swung open, he resigned himself to his life. Shit sucked out loud, but at least he _had_ Sam and his dad. He couldn't change what had happened before, but damn it if he didn't have control of what _would_ happen.

The next step was disarming the alarm, which was so crappy he was surprised it was still functioning anyway. And then his brother's hand was in his again as they walked through the few aisles of the convenience store.

Dean grabbed some bread, canned soup, milk, and of course the all-important chips and cookies (he was still twelve, after all) as well as some other essentials. Sam snuffled and ran the arm of his coat under his running nose, leaving a trail of slimy mucus behind. Dean silently added 'tissues' to the list in his head, as well as 'cold medicine', just in case.

When he thought they had everything they'd need, he made his way over to the register, leaning over the counter to where the bags were placed haphazardly behind a display of lighters. He packed everything into two bags and, almost as an afterthought, threw a couple lighters in there as well; dad was always running out.

A tug on his sleeve stopped him halfway to the door.

"What?"

A moment of hesitation, and then: "Stealing is wrong, Dean."

Dean sighed, turning back fully toward the sad little boy with the puppy dog eyes, and leaning down. "I know, Sammy, but this is an emergency." Damn those pleading eyes! He rifled around in his pocket for a moment, stared longingly at the two dollar bills that were left over from his scarce allowance, and slapped them onto the counter. "There, all paid for."

After giving him a rather dubious look, Sam relented and moved to take Dean's hand again.

Now laden with bags of precious food, they made their way back to the small apartment hand in hand through the storm.

* * *

It was another hour and a half before John managed to dig his tires out of the snow enough to continue, bleeding and cursing like a sailor all the while. Now, though, the blood from the gash in his head had all but stopped flowing. Whether it was the cold weather or the fresh gauze from the first-aid kit, he didn't know. And right now, he didn't care. He was finally on his way home again, making as much time as he could without driving like a maniac.

Another half-hour passed in silence before he saw the neon gas station sign, blaring like a signal fire through the waning snow. He almost cried as he pulled in to the small apartment complex two blocks down. Okay, so he let a few tears slip.

He was out of the car before he knew it, key shaking in his hands as he thrust it into the lock, swinging the door wide. Everything happened in scattered moments that his brain couldn't quite collect. Dean stood in the kitchen doorway, sawed-off shotgun quivering in his hands as he lowered it to his side. Sam was suddenly in front of him, talking a mile a minute, and John couldn't concentrate on the words, but he was just glad to hear his voice.

And then they were there, wrapped in the biggest hug he could ever recall giving them. They were shaking. No, _he_ was shaking. Leaning back, he took in a gulp of air, pulling himself together.

"You guys okay?"

* * *

That night found them huddled on the couch underneath a pile of blankets, the TV throwing a blue-white glow over them, volume turned down so low it could scarcely be heard.

Sammy had been the first to pass out, and Dean had refused to until he'd seen to his father's wounds. John had said he was fine, but his eldest was having none of it, his exact words being: "Cut the crap, dad. You're hurt, so let me just fix it already." Though the soldier in him had wanted to snap at Dean to watch his attitude, the father in him just smiled tiredly and let his son stitch him up.

It only now occurred to him, as he downed a glass of milk and ate some chocolate chip cookies, that he hadn't bought any of this food. He picked up a lighter that sat in the middle of the table. It was simple; red, plastic, cheap. He held it in his hand until it was warm from the heat of his palm. Until he decided that he couldn't be mad at his boys for something that was his fault.

Sliding back under the covers, he smiled sadly, held his sons close.


End file.
